


Fight Like a Girl

by achelikeflowers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gendrya - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-24 02:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12002925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achelikeflowers/pseuds/achelikeflowers
Summary: Doing what is honourable isn't always easy. Arya Stark wants to follow in her father's footsteps and become a journalist in politics, but Ned Stark was arrested when he tried to publish the truth. And living in King's Landing isn't cheap, and sometimes you have to bend the rules just to scrape by. Can Arya protect herself and still do what's right?





	1. Chapter 1

The rain beat wildly against the window as she gently touched the sensitive swollen skin of her eye as she examined the dark purple bruise that was forming.

“Hells,” she swore under her breath. There was a bump that protruded from her right eyebrow that was tender to the touch. It shouldn’t have happened, she should have had her guard up. She had been distracted, and she knew better than anyone that distractions got you hurt, or worse.

Dabbing some concealer gently underneath her eye to try and obscure some of the damage, she made her way back into the kitchen. Sipping on a cup of black coffee, and nibbling at a piece of toast, she ran over the events of the previous night in her mind.

“Idiot,” she cursed herself, she should have never let that guy get the jump on her. She was better than that.

The rain was still pouring heavily outside as she finished her coffee, and made her way into the bathroom to get ready for the day. After a long hot shower, she toweled herself off, noting the array of new bruises along her ribs and arms.

Bundling in her heavy wool-lined coat, and weaving a thick scarf around her neck, she ran down the three flights of stairs and onto the bustling street outside, popping open an umbrella to protect from the rain.

By the time she stepped into her office building her hair was dripping wet despite the umbrella, and sticking to her face. She unraveled her scarf as she made her way to the elevators.

“Arya!” someone called from behind her, as the elevator dinged.

Turning around she saw Mya Stone rushing towards her, she was wearing tailored black trousers, and a navy blue blouse beneath a heavy leather jacket. She pulled a knitted cap from her head, her short black hair a mess beneath it.

“Gods above,” she said when she caught sight of Arya’s black eye. “What happened to you?” She leaned in close, inspecting the injury.

“I wasn’t paying enough attention,” Arya confessed darkly, before quickly adding, “at kickboxing, last night.”

Mya straightened herself back up to her full height. “You know, I was kind of upset when you didn’t invite me to join your little kickboxing class,” Mya told her as they stepped into the elevator, “but seeing you now, I’m grateful.”

“Gee, thanks,” Arya said, bringing her hand up to touch the swollen egg on her head.

“I mean, did you even try to cover that thing up? It’s blacker than obsidian.”

“Let’s talk about you for a while,” Arya interrupted, keen to move the conversation away from her obvious injury. “Are you still mooning over that Mychel?”

She scrunched up her nose, “Can you believe he’s actually engaged to Ysilla Royce? They haven’t even known each other for…” Mya continued on about Mychel Redfort, who had been her first love growing up in the Vale. For the past six months Arya had been working with her, Mya had managed to bring him up at least once a week, with growing frequency since she had learned of his engagement.

As the elevator came to a stop on their floor, Mya gave her a pointed look before flicking her eyes over her shoulder.

Arya sighed heavily, as she watched Mya walk to her desk. Turning slowly she saw Tywin Lannister making his way towards her with long strides.

“Stark,” he growled.

Around the office everyone called him the Old Lion, he’d been working for the Westeros Post for the nearly forty years, the last thirty as chief editor. He was a tall man, who may once have been handsome, but his face was weathered with deep lines and he let his whiskers grow long while the rest of his hair had thinned.

“Is that appropriate attire for the office?” he looked her up and down taking in her white t-shirt tucked into her high-waisted black jeans, on her feet were worn out trainers. Before he came to rest on her deeply bruised eye.

“I’m out taking interviews this morning,” Arya told him, shrugging out of her coat, which was heavy with rain. She kept her gaze on his, as if daring him to comment. “Just came in for the meeting, and to get some supplies.”

The Old Lion mumbled his assent before stalking away from her and into his corner office.

Arya dropped her belongings onto her untidy desk before making her way to the kitchen. Brienne Tarth and Podrick Payne were deep in conversation, she filled the kettle, half listening to their discussion on the new software IT had installed the previous week. Arya thought to herself what an odd pair these two made, Brienne was from a small island in the Stormlands, she was tall, well over six feet and broadly built, with bright blue sapphire eyes and light blonde hair she kept cropped short, she spoke with a refined accent, and she took things very seriously. Pod, on the other hand, was from the Westerlands, he was smart, Mya had told her he had graduated two years early from the Old Gate College at the University of King’s Landing. He had short dark brown hair that always seemed to be a mess, and warm brown eyes. He was quiet, which made room for Brienne who could handle a conversation all on her own, but he would crack jokes at the most inopportune times, never taking things too seriously.

“Can you pass me a mug?” she asked, interrupting Brienne’s spiel.

“Sure,” the tall woman passed her the mug before catching sight of her face. “Seven hells Arya!” Brienne exclaimed. “Who did you piss off?”

“You should see the other guy,” Arya quipped, pouring boiling water over the teabag in her mug. Pod grinned, but Brienne eyed her carefully. “It was just an accident from my kickboxing class, I didn’t have my guard up and he got the better of me. It won’t happen again.”

Adding milk and sugar to her tea, Arya left the pair in the kitchen, Brienne complaining about how unreliable the new editing programs were. She slumped into her desk chair, turning on the computer and sipping her tea. Running her hands through her damp hair she tried to clear her mind, focus on the day ahead of her. She needed to head to the other side of Visenya’s Hill in West King’s Landing, and if the rain persisted, she’d have to catch the train from the offices on the Hook.

She scanned through her emails, ignoring the majority of them. She took out her notebook, and flipped to the page where she had scrawled the address the day before.

Draining the remainder of her tea, Arya strolled over to Mya’s desk. “Every time I look at you,” Mya said by way of greeting, “my own eye hurts.”

“Shut up,” Arya told her, giving her a gentle shove on the shoulder. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

Mya looked torn, before nodding with a grim expression.

“Ugh,” Arya moaned, “I’ve got to go out and do an interview in, like, two hours. They’re not going to talk to me if they think I’m a thug.”

“Well, you _are_ a thug,” Mya told her with a laugh. “I mean, look at these tattoos.” She gestured to Arya’s arms, which were speckled with illustrations, some she had designed herself, and some had been done in the spur of the moment while she was away at university.

“So, today might not have been the best day to wear short sleeves,” Arya admitted running her hand up her left arm where a large direwolf with dark golden eyes stared fiercely out.

“I think I’ve got something you can wear here somewhere,” Mya started shuffling through her things before holding up a dark grey woolen jumper with a triumphant smile on her face.

Arya pulled it over her head, before having to cuff the sleeves so she could still use her hands. It hung down to her thighs. “Thanks, Mya,” Arya told her.

“It’s meant to be oversized, but you look like you’re swimming in it. But it’s either this or that ratty old coat you’re always wearing.”

“Hey, that coat was my dad’s!” It was one of the only things Arya had left of his, and she wasn’t going to let it go despite its age.

“I know, I know,” Mya held up her hands in surrender, “but you can still keep the coat without having it be the only one you wear.”

“It’s lasted some fifty of the harshest Northern winters, I think it’ll do the job nicely.”

At nine thirty the pair made their way into the conference room along with Pod and Brienne, as well as several Lannisters Arya hadn’t bothered to learn the names of, a handful of journalists from different departments, trailed by interns, and Petyr Baelish, whom everyone called Littlefinger. The reason behind the nickname Arya didn’t know, nor did she want to.

Tywin Lannister made his way to the head of the table, putting his mug down a little too forcefully, “Alright, everybody, last day of the week, and if we put out anything like that rubbish last week, you can all forget about coming into work on Monday, whether your name is Lannister or not,” he gave a very pointed look to one of his cousins, Arya thought was maybe called Reginald.

The assembled team tossed around ideas, some bad, others worse, only a couple that would work and flow with the rest of the edition. The discussion went on for forty five minutes, with ideas getting fine tuned, like the scandal of the Prime Minister’s mistresses, and how to make it elegant and not like it came from one of the many tabloids that would be running the same story. Arya was doing a story on a local relatively unknown artist working out of a mechanics in South King’s Landing who was opening a show at Chataya’s Gallery, which was renowned across Westeros. The arts section of the paper was only small, Arya being one of only three contributors in the office. So when she had a story, she was afforded some leeway in respect to its direction.

As the meeting ended she bundled herself back up in her scarf and coat, ready to face the dreary weather outside, she slung her bag across her body, and made her way to the lifts, nodding to Mya who was waving enthusiastically, as though they hadn’t just been sat side by side in the meeting.

The rain outside looked to be coming down harder than before, she was going to have to run to the underground. Tucking the umbrella into her bag—it was only going to slow her down if she tried to run with it open—she pushed through the heavy oak doors and onto the wet streets.

She sprinted south round the bend of the Hook, carefully avoiding any metal grating so as not to slip and fall, before turning and running down the Muddy Way. _Aptly named_ , she thought darkly as she rounded the corner, her trainers sinking into the damp ground on the turn, the rain unwavering in its onslaught. Without slowing, she ran for several more minutes before she came upon the stairs to the underground at Fishmonger’s Square. Taking them two at a time she hurried along, and out of the rain, pushing her soaking hair out of her flushed face.

Pushing up the sleeve of her borrowed jumper, she saw that it was only ten thirty, and she still had an hour until her scheduled interview, she’d have to find somewhere to kill time. By the time her train pulled into the station, Arya was beginning to feel the chill of the rain through her wet clothes, and determined to find somewhere to warm up and dry off before making her way to the shop on Steel Street.

The escalators out of the station on Steel Street were long and steep, and when she finally found herself out onto the street, she noticed that the rain had eased to a drizzle, and that they were almost at the top of Visenya’s Hill. Opening the umbrella overhead, Arya strolled along the empty streets; most everyone had been forced to stay inside due to the rain. Arya liked the stillness; it almost felt like home in a way, cold and quiet.

She came to a stop in front of a small café, shaking out her umbrella into the wind; she dropped it into a bucket by the door and hung her wet coat onto the rack beside it. She could smell coffee and chocolate, and relished in the scent. She ordered herself a large coffee and a serve of honeyfingers. At university she had lived for the sweet treat, bought from a Tyroshi vendor who could usually be found around the wharves on the Shivering Sea.

She found a table in the small café by one of the large front windows so she could look out onto the street. There were quite a lot of people for a miserable Friday morning, but Arya found herself taking in all the people, and snippets of conversations she heard. Sitting down, she took off her damp jumper and folded it over the back of her chair, waiting for her coffee to come out.

Opening her notebook, Arya flipped to a blank page and began doodling in pen, she should have been writing questions for her interview, but figured she could just work it out as she went. She’d found that the best conversations came off the cuff, rather than polished and structured, people are willing to be more honest if you don’t sound as though you’ve rehearsed the entire exchange.

Her steaming mug of coffee came out and she blew on it, desperate for it to be cool enough to drink, but hot enough to warm her bones. The honeyfingers came out not long after, they were crisp and sweet, with a tang from cinnamon, the insides were a little doughy, but they still brought back memories of Braavos.

She felt herself warming with the combination of coffee and the heaters radiating from the walls. Her dark hair began to dry in messy curls about her face, swinging to the left where it ended below her chin. Savouring the dryness and the warmth, Arya enjoyed every sip of coffee and every bite of her sweets, still sketching in her notebook; there was a cat and a wolf, a sword, and a dragon.

Glancing at her watch again, the time for her interview was nearing, and the rain outside had all but stopped, though the trees on the street were waving harshly against the strong winds. Stepping back onto the wet street after wrapping herself in her abundance of outerwear, Arya noticed it had gotten busier now the weather had started to clear, people were bustling around doing their shopping, and chatting with friends. Arya bowed her head against the wind, and crossed the street, walking further up the hill until she stood in front of Tobho Mott’s workshop. There was a small, gated area with cars stacked in like a game of Tetris, and the roller door into the garage was sitting open so she made her way inside.

A kindly looking man of about fifty stood up from behind a counter by the entrance, “Good morning, what can I help with?” Arya noticed the hint of an accent in the man’s voice as his gaze flicked to her bruise, but she ignored it.

“ _Valar morghulis_ ,” she tested.

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” the man answered quickly, his smile widening slightly. “It has been a long time since I have heard those words, where are you from?”

“I lived in Braavos for several years,” Arya told him, returning his smile.

“I am from Qohor originally. A beautiful place, have you been?” Arya shook her head in response. “I lived at the edge of the forest, where you could find creatures like spotted tigers, tree cats, and even Little Valyrians.”

Arya let out a little laugh, “What exactly are Little Valyrians?”

“They are,” he struggled for the word for a moment, “lemurs, like in the Summer Isles, but with silver fur, and big purple eyes. But where are my manners,” he held out his hand, “my name is Tobho Mott.”

“Arya Stark,” she introduced, taking Tobho’s hand and giving it a firm shake.

“Ah, Miss Stark, yes, we have spoken over e-mail, you wish to see the lad’s work?”

“ _Kessa, kirimvose_ ,” she thanked him as he led her through the shop to a part that was sectioned off with welding curtains.

“Lad!” Tobho called loudly to be heard over the music from within the confines of the curtains.

The music quieted, and a man in a heavy mask and apron appeared. He was tall, over six feet, and when he removed his mask his blue eyes were bright and piercing, his black hair was tousled, and his brow was furrowed as he looked between Tobho and Arya.

Arya proffered her hand for him to shake, “I’m Arya Stark, I’m with the Westeros Post.”

He took off his gloves and clasped her hand; his were warm and a little damp from the gloves. He still wore a confused expression, and didn’t offer a greeting in return.

Arya quickly glanced at Tobho Mott before continuing on, “I’m guessing you’re Gendry Waters?” The man nodded slowly, apprehensive. “Well, as I’m sure Mr. Mott has told you, I’m working on a story about local artists and I was fascinated by your work.”

Taking off the apron, Gendry Waters stood up straighter, squaring his broad shoulders. “Alright,” he seemed defensive Arya noted.

“Shall we take a seat somewhere…” she looked around the workshop failing to spot anywhere when Tobho gestured for the pair to follow him.

They were led into a back room, with a small television, refrigerator, microwave, and a table set. “I’ll be out the front when you’re done, Gendry can show you around if you need anything.”

“So,” Arya started, pulling out her notebook and pen, “can I ask a couple of personal questions first?”

Nodding his assent, Arya got out the basics; full name, neighbourhood, age.

“Okay, do you mind if I call you Gendry?” he shook his head, and she continued on. “So what inspires your art?”

“Inspires?” he repeated, staring kind of blankly back at her. “I just make what I see in my head.”

“Okay, well walk me through the process then. You get an idea, then how does it progress?”

With a heavy sigh, and a slight roll of his eyes that had Arya almost ready to slap him, Gendry stated plainly, “I’ll sketch something, doodle it in a notebook or on a scrap of paper, the back of a receipt, and then on Fridays, Mott allows me to make stuff in his workshop, so long as everything else is fine around the shop.”

“So, you work here for Mr. Mott during the week?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen photographs of some of your sculptures, and the metalwork is so intricate. Did you start designing before or after working with car engines?”

“After.”

“Many of your pieces feature animals, is there a specific meaning behind that?”

“No.”

“Can I see what you’re working on at the moment?”

He stood up without a word and walked back over to the welding curtains, he held one aside for Arya to enter. It was a small space that was cordoned off, with a heavy topped welding table taking up most of it. On top of the table was a complex figure of a raging bull, with rippling muscles, and horns that looked sharp enough to gore.

“It’s beautiful,” Arya told him, to which he only nodded in response.

She glanced up at him; his eyes were focused on the figure of the bull, while his arms were crossed over his chest.

“Working with Chataya is a fantastic opportunity, not often afforded to such young artists.” He scoffed in response. “Tell me, how did that partnership come about?”

“Mott was working on her car, and I had accidentally left one of those,” he nodded to the bull on the welding table, “in the foyer.”

“And does King’s Landing, or more specifically North King’s Landing, play any part into your art, or expression?”

“I don’t see what being from Flea Bottom has to do with anything.”

Putting down her notebook, Arya stopped and glared at Gendry Waters with a fierce look in her eye. “Listen, if you didn’t want to do this interview, you could have just said, so we didn’t have to waste both of our times.”

He looked taken aback.

“I have better things to do than chat with bullheaded boys,” she gestured to the raging bull he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off, “who have opportunities fall into their lap that they don’t even appreciate.”

Before he had a chance to respond, Arya swung through the heavy curtains, and made her way into the foyer.

“ _Geros ilas_ Mr. Mott,” she bade the kind man farewell as she made her way back onto Steel Street and back down Visenya’s Hill.

 _What a waste of a morning_ , Arya thought as she hopped back on the underground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for Arya's tattoos came from the artwork of Hilary Heffron with GoT characters reimagined.


	2. Chapter 2

“Seriously, Mya,” Arya was recounting her day as the pair of them sat in the Broken Anvil, “he was such a twat. He wouldn’t answer any of my questions, but he _did_ roll his eyes at me.”

Mya gasped, “I’m surprised he still has his head.”

“You’re telling me, I was _this_ close to slapping him across his bloody face.”

“It’s a good thing you’re _too professional_ for that,” Mya wiggled her eyebrows, and laughed at the indignant look that crossed Arya’s face.

“But, I mean, why waste time setting up this interview if you didn’t want to be interviewed? I could have easily just taken ‘no’ for an answer, and found some other oaf to feature.”

“When have you _ever_ just taken ‘no’ for an answer? I remember when you harassed that poor man from the Iron Bank of Braavos for a solid two months.”

“ _He_ ,” Arya started, incensed, “thought he could get away with anything by pretending he didn’t speak the Common Tongue. I told you what he said about me in Braavosi, when he thought I couldn’t understand. He said to me, ‘Woman, you bray like an ass, and make no more sense.’”

“He didn’t!”

“He most certainly did. So, in perfect Braavosi, I told him in no less words, ‘Woman? Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man.’”

“You are my hero, Arya Stark.”

The pair chuckled as they continued their lively conversation, with many exaggerated expressions and loud guffaws. But Arya found her thoughts going back to her meeting that morning.

“Honestly, what a fucking joke,” she took a large drink from her beer before continuing her tirade. “You’ve gotten your first exhibit, great, good for you,” she said her voice dripping with sarcasm, “but newsflash, mate, you aren’t famous enough to have that sort of an attitude.”

“Okay, forget about him,” Mya said, waving her hand, “let’s get some shots!”

After being dragged from her seat, Arya and Mya were in the throng crowded around the bar when Arya noticed a man who kept glancing at Mya.

“You’ve got an admirer,” Arya nudged Mya to gain her attention.

Mya glanced over her shoulder to see who Arya was referring to. When Mya looked back at her, she covered her mouth as she said, “Gods, Arya, he looks old enough to be my dad!”

His hair was starting to grey, but he looked strong with a square jaw, and a finely tailored suit on. “Maybe he just wants you to call him daddy.”

“I cannot believe you just said that to me!” Mya squealed as the pair moved to the front of the queue. After downing a shot of cheap tequila, feeling it burn its way down her oesophagus, Mya managed to drag Arya onto the dance floor, which was crowded with young people bopping along to the beat.

Mya found her way to the middle of the sweaty crowd, pulling Arya behind her. Arya noted that she kept her eyes trained over her shoulder, scouring the group as she moved her hips in time to the music.

“Let’s find you somebody that’ll make you forget all about that fool from the Vale,” Arya said, swinging Mya around, so she could see the group she was gazing at. Spotting a slender man with curling sandy hair and a charming smile who was nodding his head in time to the beat, and sipping at a pint, Arya swung Mya back around. “He’s handsome,” she said, tapping her right shoulder to indicate the man.

“Ooh,” Mya thrilled, “you certainly do have good taste.”

“Please,” Arya rolled her eyes jovially, “I just know your type. You can’t resist a pretty boy.”

With a mock gasp, Mya exclaimed, “You know me too well.”

“Go get him,” Arya told her, giving her a light shove in the man’s direction. She made her way off of the dance floor and ordered herself another pint, and she found herself sitting alone, watching the crowd of people as they moved excitedly through the building, shimmying onto and off of the dance floor. Couples were swaying together, and packs of friends were laughing and dancing as one.

People watching had always been a hobby of Arya’s, it piqued her interests, and was one of the reasons she loved working in journalism. The other reason was she wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps, he had worked in political journalism for almost all of his adult life and she wanted to be something that would have made him proud. Though the arts section wasn’t what she wanted to do for the rest of her life, it was a stepping stone on the right path.

Arya found herself sat at a table with a group of people, she was cracking jokes and found herself enjoying the company of strangers. Sat beside her was a plump boy with straw blonde hair and a nice smile who had introduced himself as Hot Pie, beside him was a red haired boy with a spattering of freckles across his face whose name was Mycah. On Arya’s other side was a skinny girl with mousy brown hair, who laughed a lot, and said very little, her name was Weasel, beside her was a boy named Lommy, with golden hair and a loud laugh. The five of them made quite a group, with stories from all over Westeros and beyond.

“Lommy tells people that he works in fashion,” Weasel said in a quiet voice with a grin on her face.

“I do work in fashion,” Lommy informed Arya with a huff.

“Actually,” interjected Hot Pie, “I don’t think being a dyer’s apprentice counts as _fashion_.”

“Like you would know,” he glanced at Hot Pie’s dark jeans and trainers, his ill fitted blue dress shirt.

Mya found her way over to the table after about half an hour. After introductions were made she pulled Arya aside slightly, “He wants to see me tomorrow.”

“Ooh, get you girl,” Arya said with a jolly smile, “on the pull.”

They stayed and chatted for a while longer before Mya told Arya she was cutting her off. Tallying the pints and shots in her head, Arya did find herself swaying a little in her seat, and that had nothing to do with the song that was radiating through the pub.

“It was so lovely meeting all of you,” Arya told them as she climbed off her seat on shaky legs. “Add me on Facebook, Arya Stark!”

Mya was pulling her along, out of the pub, but Arya just shrugged her shoulders at the table with a wide grin on her face and a quick wave.

“Come on, drunky,” she said once they were outside, “I’m calling us a cab.”

* * *

The next morning, Arya woke with a dull roar in her ears, and a thudding in her head. She rolled over in bed keeping her eyes closed. _Why did you drink so much?_ She chastised herself as she rubbed at her temples and started to open her eyes.

She looked at the figure in bed beside her with a start. _What did you do last night?_ she thought to herself, horrified. She didn’t remember taking someone home, who was this person?

Slowly, Arya eased herself from the bed, tiptoeing to the other side.

“Thank the old gods and the new,” Arya said aloud, causing Mya to jolt awake.

“What in the seven hells, Arya?”

“I thought I had taken some lad home and just couldn’t remember.”

“No, just this lass, who you wouldn’t let leave last night. I had no choice but to stay and take care of your drunken arse.”

“You’ve honestly no idea how worried I was,” Arya confessed as Mya sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I thought I was going to have a heart attack when I saw someone else in my bed.”

“Just how much did you have to drink while I was off talking to Marillion?”

“ _Marillion_ , huh?” Arya asked, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Oh, so you remember _some_ things about last night?” though Mya’s face flushed a little at the mention of his name.

“Oh yes, how can I forget about Mya Stone’s new chap. Finally! Mychel who?”

Mya scoffed, “I hardly know the man, we’re just meeting up for coffee this afternoon.” At the mention of her date, Mya grabbed her phone from the bedside table and quickly sent of a message.

“Mya and Marillion,” Arya began to sing, “sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I…” Though she was quickly silenced by a barrage of pillows and blankets being thrown in her direction.

Arya collected her own phone from her side of the bed once her laughter had died down and found a series of new friend requests from the group she had sat with the night before.

“Hey, it was so nice meeting you last night, we should hang out sometime!” wrote Weasel Rivers. Arya quickly tapped accept on all four of the friend requests she had received before shooting back some responses, and agreeing to catch up with them all. In the six months that Arya had lived in King’s Landing she hadn’t had much of a chance to make many friends outside of work, so she jumped at the opportunity, and they had all seemed quite normal and funny, and normal was what Arya really wanted.

After taking a couple of aspirin, Arya jumped in the shower while Mya went back to sleep. By the time she stepped out of the shower the steam was thick in the air and Arya’s head was beginning to feel less like a construction site. She pulled on a pair of worn blue jeans and a striped shirt with sleeves to the elbow. Leaving the bathroom she started brewing a pot of coffee, before making her way back to the bedroom and shaking Mya awake.

“Get in the shower, My,” Arya told her when she had finally roused from sleep.

Pulling on a pair of thick woolen socks and a heavy pair of boots, she cuffed her jeans and glanced at herself in the mirror. She had almost forgotten about the black eye, it was turning yellow at the edges, but right below her eye on the inner corner seemed to have gotten darker, no longer purple but actually black.

Sighing heavily, she went back into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. She was flipping through her emails on her phone when Mya emerged in a towel, “Can I borrow something to wear? I don’t really fancy walking around in the same kit as yesterday.”

“Go ahead,” Arya told her with a shrug, “wear whatever you can find.”

She grabbed another mug and set it alongside her own, and quickly responded to a few work emails. Mya stepped into the kitchen wearing a pair of black leggings and a cropped mustard yellow t-shirt Arya had forgotten she owned, over the top she wore her own leather jacket and black boots.

“How can you make everything you wear look so damn good?” Arya asked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mya said with a smile, as she shook out her short damp hair. She poured herself a cup of coffee, and the pair of them discussed the state Arya was in the previous night.

“I know!” Arya agreed. “But I was having a bad day!” Just then her phone dinged with a notification that she had been tagged in a photo.

She paled as she opened the tag and saw herself sat with Lommy, Mycah, Weasel and Hot Pie. They were all smiling sweetly at the camera while Arya’s had stuck her tongue out and throwing a corna with her hands.

“Oh gods,” Arya moaned as she handed her phone to Mya who had been watching her curiously.

Mya let out a burst of laughter at the sight of the photo.

“Why did you let me get so drunk?” Arya asked her seriously. “You know I don’t have any shame once I have a couple of pints.”

“Let you?” she asked. “You think I could have stopped you. All you did was drink and complain about that interview, I couldn’t have gotten in between you.”

“I seem to remember you suggesting shots, and drinking some very cheap, very bad tequila.”

Mya looked away, and mumbled, “That doesn’t sound familiar to me.”

Rolling her eyes, Arya suggested that the pair of them go for a brunch before Mya’s date.

* * *

Mya and Arya found themselves sitting in the sunshine at a café down a quiet street not far from Arya’s flat, a vast difference from the monsoon the day before, but Arya was getting used to the temperamental weather of the South, so different to life in Braavos with seemingly endless sunshine and days that went on forever, and from the North were the days were short, and the summers were still cold, even snowing.

Drinking another coffee, and eating her avocado on toast, Arya found her headache was almost gone. Mya had ordered baked eggs; Arya could smell the aromatic spices that went so well with the heat from the sun.

“So tell me about Marillion,” Arya pressed, taking another sip from her latte.

“I mean, we didn’t speak for too long, but, gods, wasn’t he handsome,” Mya thrilled. “He’s a singer, and he was so sweet, a real gentleman. What about you? Anyone catch your eye last night?”

“Hardly,” Arya snorted. “There were only old men or young boys there. And right now, I’m focusing on my career.”

“ _Focusing on my career_ ,” Mya parroted sarcastically, “I don’t know what happened with that guy you were seeing during university, but it’s been months and months, you need to put yourself out there. You’re only going to be getting older.”

“Hey!” Arya snapped. “You’re two years older than me!”

“Yes, and look at me, going on a date in a couple of hours.”

“I don’t want to date anyone!”

“Well how are you going to meet anyone new?”

Arya crossed her arms, she didn’t like this conversation, and it wasn’t the first time it had come up.

“Come on, Arya,” Mya said gently after a moments silence. “You know I’m only trying to help.”

“I know,” Arya relented meeting her eyes, “but I just don’t want to jump into anything right now. And anyway look at the state of me,” she gestured to her eye.

“I can’t believe it actually looks _worse_ today. You really should have let me cover it with some concealer for you.”

“Oh shut up, and eat your eggs.”

* * *

By the time the pair parted ways it was nearing two in the afternoon, but Arya found herself walking, enjoying the sunshine. She wasn’t going anywhere in particular, just relishing the solitude. She pushed her sunglasses up her nose and walked along the cracked footpath, with cars rushing by and tourists snapping photos.

Living in King’s Landing felt surreal sometimes. Arya never expected to find herself here, not while growing up in Winterfell, and certainly not while at university in Braavos. She felt more out of place here than she had while in Essos where she had to learn a foreign tongue, and experience new foods and a vastly different culture.

But the capital of Westeros had always been a political hub, a place of greed and jealousy, and living in King’s Landing was the only way she was going to get a position at a decent publisher in politics.

She stopped in at a newsagent, and picked up a copy of the King’s Landing Courier before she scanned the small section of literary journals. She saw _Dracarys_ , _Faceless_ , and _Wolfblood_. Picking up the copy of _Wolfblood_ she quickly scanned the index, and found the name she was searching for. She bought both the paper and the journal and made her way back across town, back to her flat.

She sat at her kitchen table twenty minutes later with the copy of _Wolfblood_ sat in front of her closed. Her mind was reeling.

Tentatively she opened it and flipped to page 24, “Stranger in a Strange Land” read the title in large font, “by Bethany Salt”.

Arya read over her own pen name and it gave her a jolt of joy.

“They published it,” she said aloud to the empty kitchen. “They actually published it.”

She would have to check her emails to see when they sent the confirmation of publication, because she had missed it entirely, but that didn’t matter. She was officially published, and in _Wolfblood_ no less, a publication from the North, from her home. Arya wriggled in her seat joyfully, a smile plastered wide across her face as she read her own words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Woman? Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man" comment was taken from a Daenerys chapter in A Storm of Swords


End file.
